The smart thing to do would be to hightail it out of London before the Kakos daemons decide to finish what they started. As I slink from one shadowy street corner to another, I know I’m not the only person who’s keeping their head down. The city is in virtual lockdown and everyone, humans and tribers included, is running scared. I imagine that the only ones who are sitting with their feet up and looking happy are the daemons themselves. The others, even those who hated the vampire Families with a passion, are terrified about what’s coming next.

Television screens all over the country are running an endless loop of the screaming bloodguzzlers and piles of rubble left smoking at each Family’s stronghold. Drops of rain from the overcast grey sky plop heavily onto a discarded copy of
The Metro
near my feet. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the word ‘genocide’ and hastily look away. I’m having a hard enough time keeping my angry darkness damped down as it is. I don’t need all these constant reminders.

Of course, not all of us are dead. Bombs are indiscriminate. While the majority of the vampires were taken out in one fell swoop, some have been pulled out from the mess. Some were not even present, busy attending to other pressing matters which even Medici’s now-vanquished threat couldn’t supersede. But those lucky survivors are on their way out; they’ve been granted asylum by friendly factions in the States and in Europe, and they’re in a rush to leave. It doesn’t help that there are rumours of death squads taking advantage of the chaos to stalk the streets and settle old feuds by killing any remaining vampires. Whether those rumours are true, it seems that nobody wants to stick around. Nobody apart from me.

A black witch, identifiable by his tattooed cheek, trudges towards me. I pull up the collar of my leather jacket and angle my face away. The last thing I need right now is the world knowing where I am, let alone the black witches. It’s no secret that I survived – plenty of voyeuristic Instagrammers and Tweeters caught me screaming at O’Shea on my way to the destroyed remains of the Monstserrat mansion. If I had the wherewithal, I’d track down every damn one of them and smash their stupid smartphones into oblivion but I don’t have time for such pettiness.

I only slow my steps when the grim façade of the police station comes into view. Weak sunlight, filtering through the heavy clouds and seemingly undisturbed by the continuous drizzle, bounces off the dirty windows. There was a time when all I could think about was being strong enough to withstand UV rays. Now that I’ve achieved that milestone, I couldn’t give a flying fuck. It makes life easier in terms of getting around but it doesn’t make me happy. Right now, very little could.

The police station is busy. I lean against a wall on the opposite side of the street, using the awning above as shelter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes to make it look as if I’m nothing more than a desperate smoker stopping for a puff. I keep an eye on the door as I cup my hands against the wind and light up. Two humans and an Agathos daemon leave the station; three humans and a white witch enter. They’re giving witness statements, I suppose. Or stating their worries and seeking police protection. I could tell them that they don’t have to be afraid but they’re not my concern.

I inhale smoke, filling my lungs and almost choking. It’s been a long time and the taste of nicotine in my mouth is foul. The glowing tip of the cigarette reminds me of me the fires flickering across the Montserrat ruins. I scowl and hunch my shoulders.

I’ve just about finished the cigarette when a familiar figure appears, her clothes well starched and her hair in a severe bun that Miss Jean Brodie herself would envy. She’s followed by another detective who is rather more rumpled. Even from this distance I can see that they are both tired and drawn and I wonder how much sleep they’ve had recently. Then I shrug. At least they’ll be getting overtime. At least their lives haven’t been obliterated.

Foxworthy and Nicholls ignore the police cars parked out front and walk along the pavement. I check my watch; it’s only just gone ten. It won’t make much difference, though: the Altered Trout, a police hangout, is open twenty-four hours a day to accommodate all shifts. They’ll be planning on having a swift pint before heading home. Unfortunately, not all plans come to fruition.

I wait just long enough to confirm their destination then toss the cigarette butt aside. There’s a soft sizzle as it hits the wet pavement. Litterbug that I am, I leave it where it is and walk swiftly to overtake the two police officers. Their heads are bowed in conversation so neither of them even glance in my direction. I beat the lights and cross the road just ahead of them, push open the pub door and slide inside. Warmth hits me, along with the yeasty smell of beer. I scan the room, spot a recently-vacated table in the far corner and hastily shuffle over. I grab a grubby pint glass with a few dregs left inside as a prop to make it appear that I’m nothing more than another punter who’s been here for hours. Nobody pays me any attention.

I let out a silent sigh of relief and hunker down in the seat. My view of the bar is unobstructed. As Foxworthy and Nicholls enter, I count the other customers and carefully assess them. There’s a bullish-looking man perched on a stool, his arse too large to fit it comfortably. Despite his thick neck and the tell-tale reddened complexion of an alcoholic, he has that air of law enforcement about him. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s wearing comedy socks, barely visible under the hem of his trousers, I’d consider him a threat. Instead I know that he’s the sort who’s little more than bluster, regardless of his rank.

A group of younger policemen and women are sitting at another table, occasionally laughing nervously. I frown slightly. It’s youth that is dangerous. Youth encourages passion, a willingness to succeed and a strong sense of right and wrong. It’s only when we get older that we tend not to get so passionately involved in every little matter. Experience encourages cynicism, and cynicism encourages apathy.

I reckon that, in a pinch, I can take on the group. I can’t see any anti-vamp gear on them. I suppose every cloud has a silver lining. There was a rumour that Magix, the vast conglomerate with a stranglehold on the magical market, had recently signed a deal to supply every police force with specially adapted tasers and handcuffs designed to bring down and restrain bloodguzzlers. It was one of many signs of changing sentiment towards us; after all, vampires are supposed to be above the law but Magix seemed to be banking on the law changing. I allow myself a brief smile. All that money they must have spent on research and production, not to mention political lobbying, and now there aren’t any vampires to use their equipment on.

I return my focus to my target. I don’t give a shit about Nicholls; she wouldn’t help me if I were the last vampire in the world. Foxworthy, however, is a different matter. Relations have become rather strained between us of late but he did let me hide out in his house a while back. I’d have waited for him there – with his invitation to enter, I can go in whenever I please – but I want him on my side. I won’t use the intimidation card unless I absolutely have to.

He pays for the drinks – a white wine soda and a pint of ale – and the pair of them find a table out of earshot of everyone else. The younger police officers nod respectfully in their direction but, other than that, they’re left alone. I note with amusement that Foxworthy is the wine drinker. The big man doesn’t feel the need to look butch and obviously doesn’t care what others think. He takes a delicate sip, his large fingers incongruous around the slender stem of the wine glass. In contrast, Nicholls gulps at her ale. A beat later, before I can stand up and head over, Foxworthy stands up again and walks to the loo. Perfect.

Without looking at Nicholls, I veer round the tables and chairs and make a beeline after him. Everyone is focused on themselves and no one clocks my entry into the Gents. The door thuds shut behind me and I walk up to the urinal next to Foxworthy. Good grief, men’s toilets are truly disgusting.

He grunts as I approach, no doubt expecting a fellow male. A pale yellow stream of urine is hitting the stained ceramic with perfect aim but, when I murmur a soft hello, he jerks in shock and sends an arc spinning out towards me. I only just manage to jump backwards to avoid it.

‘Sodding hell!’ I exclaim. ‘Watch it!’

He hisses but, together with annoyance, there’s something like relief in his eyes. Aw, Foxy. He returns to his ablutions, finishing up before zipping his trousers. Then he turns to me.

‘Wash your hands first,’ I advise.

‘You shouldn’t be here, Bo.’

I cross my arms. ‘I’m serious. Germs can be dangerous.’

‘I don’t think I’m the one in danger.’ All the same, he turns and goes to the sink. ‘This isn’t the place for you,’ he tells me above the sound of the tap. ‘You know the government is offering safe houses for all remaining bloodguzzlers.’

I snort. ‘Yeah, they’re all heart.’

‘You should take them up on it.’

I think of Vince Hale, the slimy politician who worked with Medici to try and gain prominence over us ‒ and worked with Tov V’ra to kill us all. I wouldn’t trust anyone in power. ‘Have any vampires taken them up on the offer?’

Foxworthy dries his hands and doesn’t answer. Yeah, that’s what I thought. ‘Do you have numbers?’ I ask him. ‘Of survivors?’

‘It’s not like your lot are beating down our door to tell us they’re alright.’ I wait. He sighs. ‘Best guess is around sixty, fairly evenly spread across the five Families. Most of them have already left the country. Some have been killed since the bombs.’

I swallow. So those rumours are true. No one would have dared kill a vampire if the Families were still around.

Foxworthy turns to face me while I struggle to keep a rein on my rage. This isn’t the place. ‘Who was it really?’ he asks.

There’s no point playing dumb and pretending I don’t know what he’s asking. I like that he knows there’s more to this than Tov V’ra, a nutty group of fake believers. And there’s no point hiding from the truth any longer. ‘The Kakos daemons.’

The only sign that Foxworthy hears me is his sudden blanching. I continue, ‘They were pissed off that the Families were growing. They thought we were getting uppity and decided that the best way to deal with us was to slaughter us like pigs.’

‘Do you have proof?’

No. ‘I can get it. What exactly do you need?’

Foxworthy’s jaw clenches as he meets my gaze. ‘That’s why you’re here.’ It’s not a question. ‘You want us to round up the daemons and punish them.’

I lift a shoulder. ‘It’ll take multiple life sentences of rehabilitation.’

He exhales. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘They’re not vampires. They’re not above the law.’

A sad smile traces across his mouth. ‘You know that doesn’t matter.’

‘I can get proof.’

‘It won’t make any difference.’

He’s absolutely right, of course. I knew it before coming here to find him even crossed my mind. All the same, I feel compelled to make my case. ‘The Kakos daemons are responsible for thousands of deaths. They’re criminals. They could strike anyone else at any time.’ I tilt my face upwards and lean in. ‘Are you really going to let that hang over the heads of every living person in this country?’

Foxworthy looks away. We both know that the Kakos daemons are too strong. If the entire Metropolitan police force went after just one of them, there would be a bloodbath and the daemon would be the one still grinning at the end.

‘I can pass your allegation on to my superiors,’ he says finally.

Allegation? Ha. I’m speaking the truth and Foxworthy knows it. He knew it as soon as I opened my mouth. ‘You didn’t like it when I was a vigilante.’

He tenses. ‘No one should be able to take the law into their own hands.’

‘The Kakos daemons have,’ I respond softly. ‘They’ve acted as judge, jury and goddamned executioner. And they’re going to get off scot-free because everyone’s too bloody scared of them.’

The flicker in Foxworthy’s eyes acknowledges what I’m saying. ‘Are you asking for permission to go after them, Bo? Because I’m not in a position to give it. And neither will anyone else, no matter what proof you get.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, bitterness colouring my voice. ‘They’ve got too much power and they’re too good at what they do, so all this will be swept under the carpet until the Families are nothing more than a footnote in history.’

Foxworthy runs a hand through his hair. What he doesn’t say is that the Families are already that.

I take off my baseball cap and gaze at him, openly pleading. ‘All I need is the location of one daemon.’

‘I can’t…’

I hold up my palm. ‘You don’t go near him,’ I say. ‘You don’t do anything more than follow the paper trail. Rogu3 has been trying but he’s got other things to do; also, this particular daemon already knows of his existence and has taken measures against him. You have access to files which we don’t. The daemon has a human face and he works in senior management at Streets of Fire.’ Well, technically he owns the bloody company but at this point that’s unnecessary information. I hand over a slip of paper with my old address on it, the flat which X had lent me for my own use. ‘This is one of his properties. All I want is another address where he might be located.’

‘You can’t go up against a Kakos daemon. I know you killed one before, Bo, but you got lucky.’ He’s referring to X’s little game where he pretended to attack me live on television. X permitted me to ‘kill’ him. It was, like everything X has done, nothing more than a ruse.

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